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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28572144">Without glasses, brightly</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/idanit/pseuds/idanit'>idanit</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Banter, Chocolate Box Exchange, Chocolate Box Exchange 2021, Crowley's Eyes (Good Omens), Crowley's Sunglasses (Good Omens), Other, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Restaurants, Sunglasses, Talking, secret agents</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:21:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>819</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28572144</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/idanit/pseuds/idanit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.” (1 Corinthians 13:12, KJB)</p><p>Aziraphale thinks Crowley's sunglasses give him an unfair advantage in that he can look at Aziraphale whenever he pleases while keeping his own eyes hidden from view. Fortunately, Aziraphale also has an idea about how to deal with it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>66</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Chocolate Box - Round 6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Without glasses, brightly</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsajeni/gifts">Elsajeni</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks for being a lovely beta, lighting_alexander. Elsajeni, I hope you enjoy this little treat.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The post-apocalyptic world feels really good to Crowley. It’s more of the same in the best of ways, only without the constant looking over one’s shoulder. This is convenient; it means Crowley can spend all of his days watching Aziraphale drink wine in the back room of his shop, read his precious books, eat the most extravagant food a high-end London restaurant has to offer, and even frown at the drizzly street outside the window.</p><p>He doesn’t like that last bit. It’s been a perfectly normal Thursday dinner so far, but Aziraphale looks distinctly unhappy, and Crowley will not stand for this.</p><p>“What’s wrong?” he asks, glancing around and sniffing the air for anything non-human. There’s the smell of candles, well-seasoned meat, perfume; there’s nothing.</p><p>“I just don’t see why you insist on wearing them all the time.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Aziraphale abandons his cutlery and delicately taps on his temple.</p><p>It takes Crowley a moment. “My glasses? Oh, dunno.” He scrunches up his nose and shrugs. “Maybe I just don’t like the sound of people screaming. I thought something was wrong for a moment here.”</p><p>“Crowley, you can will humans to disregard your eyes. You’re not considerate, you’re just lazy.”</p><p>“I’m not considerate because I’m still a <em>demon</em>,” Crowley wants to say, but doesn’t. It’s not like it’s particularly relevant anymore. “It’s a fashion statement as well,” he says instead. “I don’t expect you to understand.”</p><p>“It’s not even in fashion.”</p><p>“And you’d know.”</p><p>Aziraphale lets out an indignant huff and almost knocks his glass off the table. “Just because I refuse to buy ill-fitting, unethical, mass-produced modern clothing doesn’t mean I don’t know about fashion. Nobody wears sunglasses on a rainy November day. Never did.”</p><p>Crowley draws back, more and more uncertain of the trajectory of this conversation, and hums speculatively. “They could start.”</p><p>“Don’t you dare.”</p><p>“Why do you care so much, anyway?”</p><p>The righteous ire leaves Aziraphale as quickly as it filled him and he deflates a little. “Well, why do you think the humans care? You don’t have to hide, Crowley. I know you got used to it, but I think it’s long past the time when it was necessary, or useful.”</p><p>The chairs in this room of the restaurant are ornate dark wood, with just enough padding on the seat and back to be decorative rather than comfortable. Crowley squirms in his seat and begins to ramble about the lost art of proper upholstery, then about snake gods in ancient Mesopotamia, then about a concert happening tomorrow, and Aziraphale lets the matter drop. For now.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Not for long.</p><p>“Aziraphale. What on earth?”</p><p>It’s not raining the next afternoon, but the clouds hang low in the sky, as thick as Aziraphale’s favourite cauliflower purée. The streets look like they yearn for the streetlights to come on already. The angel, standing right at their meeting place in the park, is wearing designer sunglasses of his own.</p><p>“I thought I might give them a try. You said they’re fashionable.”</p><p>Crowley opens his mouth, promptly closes it, and repeats the process. He thinks of the airfield and of his visit to Heaven, the last two times when reality felt this far off-kilter. Seconds, and other people, pass the two of them, indifferent to Crowley’s internal struggles.</p><p>“They really, really don’t go with your creams and beiges,” he finally chokes out.</p><p>Aziraphale seems unfazed. He offers Crowley his arm. “Are you coming?”</p><p>He means the concert, though Crowley doesn’t remember it at the moment.</p><p>The park they’re currently in has something of a reputation, and if anyone has ever looked like a pair of secret agents while ambling through its alleys, it’s surely these two. Mind you, they couldn’t be very good secret agents, one of them in sunglasses alarmingly mismatched with the rest of his outfit, the other looking too ill at ease to be any cool.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Crowley bears it for a full six days. Couldn’t even make it a nice round week. They’re at another restaurant, something much more casual than the last one, when he interrupts Aziraphale mid-sentence and reaches out over the table to take the glasses off his face.</p><p>“Come on, angel. These are worse than ridiculous, they’re hideous. Off with them.”</p><p>“A-a!” Aziraphale puts his hands over Crowley’s and holds the temples down, smiling angelically. “After you.”</p><p>“You're being difficult.” Crowley throws his glasses onto the paper napkin, but not before throwing Aziraphale a dark look as well, for good measure. Aziraphale meticulously cleans his own pair of glasses with a cloth before putting them in a tartan case.</p><p>“I love seeing you roll your eyes, my dear.”</p><p>“Nhh. I love seeing you,” Crowley makes a vague gesture, “being unfashionable again.”</p><p>“Sick contacts,” says a waiter, handing them their drinks. A wiser Crowley would know exactly how to wipe the smug smile off Aziraphale’s mouth—but that might take him a few more Thursdays.</p>
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